Spalding, Not Wilson: A Day with Jim

Jim loves basketball. He really loves basketball. If his passion were raw ability that could be fashioned into talent, he would be the next Stephen Curry, and I would be narrowing down the perfect locale for the perfect house he would be buying his dear sweet Anma in twenty years. We are not sure just how a child who is not yet two developed this passion. His parents do not watch basketball on television. He does not have an older sibling whose games he is dragged to on weekends. He does not even own a basketball. Cannot wait to see his surprise when he opens his birthdays presents at his second birthday party next month. (Shh!! Don’t tell.)

It could be Jim’s interest was sparked watching pick up games at the local park. Or perhaps it was that early spring day when Pop-pop put Jim on his shoulders and helped him dunk a few baskets in our rickety hoop out back. More likely it was his favorite, ever attentive caregiver at the YMCA who fueled his passion. It is the case that whenever Jim pops into the babysitting center, this energetic, twenty-something young man diverts—some might use a stronger word like forces—all the other children, who are not yet verbal enough to object to this display of overt favoritism, from the toddler hoop.  Whatever the source, we know Jim is a toddler obsessed.

I did not know the depth of his obsession until I spent the day with Jim. When we returned home after dropping off his parents at the train station, I made the mistake of entering the house through the garage.  Jim made a beeline for the basketball bin in the corner in the garage, grabbed a Spalding basketball, and was headed out to shoot some hoops.

I, however, was hungry. I wanted breakfast. And several tasks needed my attention in the house. So I used all my powers of persuasion to get Jim in the house. Ultimately I convinced him to come in the house by pointing to the picture on the box of the toddler basketball set that I needed to assemble for his cousin Marshall’s first birthday party the day after next. He and his regulation Spalding basketball came inside and waited an eternity as I threaded the net through the hoop, attached the hoop to the backboard, slipped the backboard into the pole, and secured the pole into the stand. And then he was in basketball heaven.

He spent the morning shooting hoops, alternating between the toddler basketball and the Spalding. Although the Spalding always got stuck in the small hoop, he did not care. He had figured out how to get it unstuck and he was quite satisfied. I ate breakfast at my leisure. I also washed the dishes, wiped the counters, and mopped the floor. And the morning wore away, basket by basket, as Jim inaugurated Marshall’s basketball hoop. (Shh! Don’t tell Marshall!)

At lunchtime I announced to Jim we would be making our obligatory trip to Wendy’s for lunch. Jim needed a nap, and I have long since calculated that the car ride home from the closest Wendy’s is just long enough to induce sleep in even the most resistant toddler provided he is sufficiently sated. Jim walked toward the door leading from the kitchen to the garage carrying his Spalding with him.

I opened the door. Jim paused, his arms wrapped around the basketball partially perched on his toddler belly as he looked at the three steps down to the garage floor. He recognized the need to descend those three steps in order to get to the car, but he was not sure how to do it without abandoning his beloved ball. He surveyed the steps, calculating the risks of  descending them while clutching the ball. Habit and safety required him to hold the handrail. But holding the rail would mean dropping the ball.

Had I been in a hurry, I would have simply lifted him down the stairs and whisked him into the car. But I had time. And I was curious. I wanted to see how he would solve his great dilemma. So I watched as he stood, presumably considering his options. He could throw the ball down into the garage, ahead of himself, and then retrieve it. He could leave the ball at the top of the stairs and then grab it after he had descended. He could hand the ball to me. Or he could simply abandon it. Each option, however, required him to let go of the basketball.

After a minute, he leaned against the wall and very carefully lifted his first leg over the door saddle down and onto the first step, then he lifted his other leg, all while clutching Spalding. Then he sat down. Very carefully he scooted his bottom down the first step, then the next, and after reaching the final step, he stood up and proceeded walking to my car.  He had seen a solution I had not even considered and was able to descend the stairs without loosening his grip on his Spalding. 

The trip to Wendy’s was not without its own drama. After we arrived, I removed Jim from his car seat and put him down to shut the car door, leaving the basketball safe in the car seat.

“Basketball, ” he started wailing.

“Hamburgers,” I countered. “And ice cream.”

“Basketball,” he continued, reaching for the handle that was beyond his grasp.

“We can have lots and lots of ice cream once we go in.”

“Basketball,” he cried, pounding on the car door.

“And the basketball will be safe in Anma’s car. We will get it as soon as we are finished with lunch,” I promised. “Besides,” I said trying to reason with him, “We wouldn’t want to lose your basketball at Wendy’s.”

But Jim was inconsolable at the separation from his beloved basketball. The scene was not unlike that of Tom Hank’s character Chuck Noland in the film Castaway, who was consumed with grief as he watched his only companion, his beloved volleyball Wilson, drift away in the open sea. Except Jim mourned a Spalding basketball, not a Wilson volleyball. Except that it was only a door that separated Jim and his ball, not an expansive ocean. Except that Jim was standing next to a car in a suburban parking lot and Chuck was clinging to life on a raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Except that Jim and his ball would be reunited after lunch. But try telling that to a distraught Jim. The depth of his anguish was surely equal to that of Chuck’s. To Jim, the door separating him from his beloved ball was as broad and deep a barrier as that of a vast and endless sea.

Now I am generally an indulgent grandma. But I did not intend to allow Jim to take that basketball into the Wendy’s. It was not a point of principle, rather a point of practicality. I easily could imagine the havoc Jim and his basketball could create, and I was not prepared to pay for the damages. So I picked up the sobbing Jim and carried him into the Wendy’s where he eventually calmed down and enjoyed his hamburger, fries and Frosty.

Although the nap in the car ride home did not go as intended (Note to self: do not give a 12-ounce lemonade to a child in a car seat if you do not expect him to get drenched), the rest of the day was uneventful for the stripped down Jim. That is, until it was time to pick up his parents after a day away from them.

“It’s time to go get Mommy and Daddy,” I announced, expecting him to be ecstatic at the idea of being reunited with his parents.

“No,” he replied. “Basketball.” He shot a basket.

“You can take the basketball with you,” I offered.

“No, basketball,” he replied. And it was clear that although he was using the same word that he had used earlier in the parking lot encounter, basketball now meant something entirely different. It was not a noun signifying his beloved Spalding, but a verb describing the game in which he was absorbed. He did not want his game interrupted.

Once again I tried reasoning with him, never a wise strategy with a toddler when you do not intend to allow him any choice in the matter. “But Mommy and Daddy miss you. They want to see you.”

“No. Basketball,” he repeated, shooting yet another basket.

“Let’s go see Mommy,” I said, changing my strategy slightly. Jim is a mama’s boy. I hoped this appeal might work. “Mommy really wants to see you.”

“No. Basketball.” He picked up Spalding.

So I pulled the grandma card and sweetened the deal. “We need to go. Grandma has some fruit snacks you can eat when we get in the car.”

His interest was piqued. He looked at me. Then he looked down at the basketball he was clutching.

 “You can bring the basketball,” I said. After our drama at Wendy’s, I had no intention of separating him from his beloved ball. As I dangled those fruit snacks in front of him, I got him out the door and into his car seat.

We did make it to the train station, albeit a tad late. He was indeed happy to see his parents. But he never gave up his grip on Spalding. He fell asleep in his car seat on the return trip, still clutching it. As we drove home, I regaled his parents with the details of our day and I began to wonder just where my place in his passion is.

Oh, how I wish I had a crystal ball. Is Jim destined for the basketball hall of fame? Certainly he has the requisite passion and drive. But genetics are not necessarily in his favor. His mother stands only a little over 5 feet tall. His father is over 6'1", his uncle is 6’4”, but alas Jim looks more like a linebacker than a power forward. Nonetheless, I wonder if I will someday find myself moving heaven and earth to encourage his passion. On the other hand,  I might myself trying to direct him away from basketball down a more stable, sensible, scholarly path. And more importantly, will he, I wonder,  even respond to me, his dear sweet Anma, when the allure of fruit snacks has long since worn off.

So I muse. Thoughts far too premature for a fine summer day like today.  Thankfully, those questions are years away. For now, I am awaiting my Amazon delivery of the Little Tykes TotSports Easy Score Basketball set. Can’t wait. (Shh! Don’t tell.)